Endorphins
by Besina
Summary: John and Sherlock return from the end of a successful case still going on a post-case high. Part 1 of the Ambiguity series.


The front door slammed open as John and Sherlock raced each other to the flat, still giggling hysterically and so high on the chemical rush their bodies had provided during the conclusion of a successful chase, that their heads were buzzing.

Still breathing hard, interspersed with fits of laughter, Sherlock leaned back against the door, shook his coat off and expertly threw it onto a hook before collapsing back against it for support, while John merely tossed his on the back of his chair.

Leaning back against the door, Sherlock continued laughing in fits and starts, while trying to get his breath back in between bouts.

John turned around, facing him. "Jesus, Sherlock. That was...something!"

"I know," grinned Sherlock in response, "Almost as fun as our cabbie chase."

_"Almost?"_ John asked incredulously, "_So_ much better!"

Sherlock gasped in another lungful of air. "Perhaps I'm getting sentimental," breathed Sherlock, smiling.

John raised a quizzical eyebrow at him and took a step forward. "You?" A brief laugh escaped his lips, "Never."

Within seconds John found himself, still breathing hard, pressed tightly up against his friend, his hands gripping firmly onto the sides of Sherlock's head and pressing his lips to the detective's for just one moment before he suddenly came back to himself, aghast at what he'd just done; but the physical evidence of his arousal was there.

He shook his head and stepped back, both he and Sherlock looking dumbstruck by what had just occurred.

"Uh..." he started, at the same time that Sherlock began.

"John... I ... um... I don't..."

John cleared his throat and burst in, "Yes, I know Sherlock, and I'm _not_ gay, but _damn it_ if something isn't happening to me." There was a pause, John blushed furiously and looked away. "I think it's all the action, the endorphins..."

There was a short silence while Sherlock processed this and John questioned his sanity.

Sherlock quickly pulled himself back together. "That makes sense," he commented, as clinically as possible, "frequently when people find themselves coming out of life-or-death situations and the endorphins, adrenaline and fear are still running high, they feel the need to do something life-affirm.." His sentence was cut short once more as John smashed his mouth over Sherlock's, before quickly clapping a hand over his own mouth, eyes wide, and hastily backing off again.

"God, I'm sorry!" John sounded horrified at his behavior. "Sorry Sherlock! I shouldn't have. I don't know why I did. I know you don't... but dammit," he was panting, Sherlock noticed, and not just from recovering his breath from the run, "I ... I really seem to need this Sherlock. I can't say why... you're probably right... just chemicals, but I feel as if I'm going to explode if I don't _do_ something. I... I'll back off. I'll... I'll go." He look flustered and was frankly wishing for a small hole to crawl in and die. "You know I normally... I am just so sorry..." John looked so confused and lost and upset, Sherlock couldn't help but feel for him.

There was another silence in the flat as John looked determinedly at the floor waiting to take the first chance he got to bolt from the flat and down to the pub to drink himself into oblivion. Sherlock watched John swallow hard, as the doctor purposefully avoided making eye contact with his flatmate, his adam's apple bobbing up and down in distress.

_John needed him. Needed reassurance that everything was okay. Certainly, it was true that no, he didn't engage, but even he had had a bit of a physical response to tonight's high-intensity situation, and it's not that he'd never gotten off before, it's just that he'd usually taken care of it himself, perfunctorily. It was just transport, after all._

_That last thought stuck with him. It __**was**__ just transport. John was beyond distressed, and __**it was just transport**__. He could fix this._

"John," he said quietly, taking a minute step toward his friend and laying a hand lightly on his shoulder. "It's okay. I understand. It's not normal for me, no, but I expect it's hardly normal for you either. Let's fix this." And with that, he leaned down, and very gently pressed his lips against John's, who confusedly but gratefully kissed back, happy to have had the decision made for him and determined to put off his sexual identity crisis until later. Right now, his pulse just thundered in his ears and his thoughts turned to into a useless slurry.

"Sherlock," he murmured against his lips, "what are we..."

"Fixing it." Sherlock murmured back, gracefully steering John backwards toward his bedroom.

As they entered, Sherlock kicked the door closed behind them, while still kissing John, and gracefully started unbuttoning the doctor's shirt. John's head still spinning, he was a little slow on the uptake but started in on Sherlock's shirt a moment later.

Shirts shed, and unable to help himself, John clung to the back of Sherlock's head like a drowning man, deepening the kiss, which Sherlock allowed and even encouraged. John felt the tug of Sherlock's fingers on his trousers, but could barely be bothered to come up for air simply snogging his best mate. Slowly he felt them loosen and his trousers and pants fall to the floor. Hesitantly breaking away for just a moment, he toed off his shoes and socks while Sherlock apparently did the same while losing the rest of his clothes as well.

Both naked and aroused, John still feeling as if this was some sort of dream-state, they stared at each other for a moment, before Sherlock backed John all the way onto the bed, aligning them both toward the headboard. He crawled over the doctor and lay facing John, cradling John's face in his hands and kissed him in earnest, feeling some of the tension leaving the doctor's body as he did so, but also noting John's heart rate increase.

Still locked in the kiss, Sherlock rolled over on top of his friend, forcing a gasp from him as their bodies came into complete contact. John couldn't control the inadvertent thrust of his hips upward, as their cocks brushed against each other. Sherlock, unused to contact, and already half-hard as it was, began to stiffen more at the sensation; but the clinical aspects of their current situation seemed to hold even greater fascination for him, as he noted and filed away as much data as possible.

They thrust against each other a few times, John taking in shaky breaths, before gasping out "Sherlock..." while not knowing quite what it was he was asking for.

Sherlock leaned over to the bedside table, located a small tube of lubricant, flipped off the lid, and applied a generous amount to his hand, and replaced it on the table all without looking, before turning his attention downward. He grasped John's prick, as well as his own and coated them liberally, drawing out a startled and ecstatic moan from John.

He then returned his hands to either side of John's head and renewed their efforts of grinding against one another. John moaned and thrust back, his body nearly on auto-pilot, but he couldn't help looking up into Sherlock's eyes as the detective focused on him. He tensed up again slightly, still not sure that this was really okay. "Sherlock?" he inquired shakily.

Sherlock smiled genuinely back down at him, caringly, though it _was_ his _don't-be-an-idiot-John_ look. "Shh. It's okay John. It's transport, and yours needed this. I'm happy to oblige. And I must admit..." he closed his eyes briefly as they rubbed against each other again, "it... does feel rather... good." He was nearly panting.

John smiled up at him, relief playing over his features, slowly being replaced by a mischievous look as he wondered if he could make Sherlock pause like that, make that expression again or even actually pant some more. He thrust up with renewed vigor, catching the detective a little off-guard which earned him a small moan from Sherlock. John grinned.

Sensing a challenge, Sherlock opened his eyes again and slightly adjusting his angle toward John bore down against him, twisting slightly as they slid past each other.

In no time at all, the pace between the two of them had picked up, Sherlock pressing his mouth back to John's and deepening their kisses, while John's fingers gripped into Sherlock's shoulders. The panting became hard to distinguish as did the moans, as they both became louder and more frequent.

Sherlock's vocalisations stuck mainly to moans, groans and hums, while John was much more vocal, uttering phrases like "Shit!", "Sherlock!", "Oh fuck!" and "Oh my fucking god!" Sometimes separately, other times as an entire flurry of exclamations. All of which brought a small smile of satisfaction to the detective's face.

Sherlock broke off the kisses to start laving them down the side of John's neck, while John, very nearly at his breaking point, thrust up against him, sucking and biting at Sherlock's shoulder moments before his entire body stilled, then wracked itself with shivers, his body arching toward Sherlock, fingers gripping tightly to him, as wave after wave of orgasm hit him. He'd barely come up for breath when one more earth-shattering one took him, tearing a cry from his lips and pushing the detective over the edge as well, making him tense and spill onto John's stomach with a low growl and moan.

They slumped together, both too exhausted to move, panting and regaining control of themselves.

Slowly, Sherlock rolled off John and onto the bed beside him, still catching his breath. "That was interesting," he stated, a smile curling the edges of his mouth.

Perhaps anyone else would have been insulted by such a statement, but John took it for what it was. "Yes, indeed," he agreed. "But..."

"Don't overthink it, John. Transport. Needed release. We provided it. Changes nothing. And no, you're not gay." There was a slight beat before he amended, "Perhaps desperate, but not gay."

Without looking, John swatted him on the shoulder. "Sorry Sherlock, but anyone shagging you, regardless of orientation, is hardly desperate."

"Does that mean you find me sexually appealing, John?" inquired a slightly smug voice from beside him.

"Everyone does, and you know it you great, collar-flipping, mysterious, git." John chuckled back. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "I'm going to go get cleaned up. Would you like a towel and a flannel, Sherlock?"

"Yes, please," came the sleepy but self-satisfied response.

John returned a few moments later, having cleaned himself up in the bathroom, warm flannel and towel ready for Sherlock, only to find the great and mysterious git already asleep. He quickly cleaned up his friend then, tired himself, crawled beneath the covers to sleep. They'd figure out the repercussions and meanings, if any (if Sherlock's take on it was to be trusted) tomorrow.


End file.
